


better than none

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "Mr. Robot knew exactly which buttons to push the second he entered Tyrell Wellick’s home—it was almost too easy, setting him up and knocking him down..."In which Philip Price shows up a bit later in 3x09 and matters... escalate.
Relationships: Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	better than none

Mr. Robot knew exactly which buttons to push the second he entered Tyrell Wellick’s home—it was almost too easy, setting him up and knocking him down with two little words.

“Or would she want you to be their little bitch?”

That’s the snapping point—Tyrell whirls and socks Robot with a clean punch to the mouth that sends him to the ground. It surprises and delights Robot in equal measure, knowing there’s still some of the old Tyrell hiding somewhere in that lackluster suit.

“There you go. Fight!” Robot says, starting to clamber back up. “That’s the Tyrell who’s been mi—”

But Tyrell shoves him back down, Robot’s hat falling off in the process.

“—ssing,” Robot finishes, breathless. “Now, you wanna stop them too, before they put you in that choke collar?”

That comment was really just thrown in for effect, but Tyrell is already on top of him, pulling off his suit jacket quicker than Robot can speak.

“Unless you’re into that sort of thing,” Robot smirks.

Tyrell pulls one of Robot’s arms across his neck and shoves him down, pulling back his hand for another punch that lands square on Robot’s nose.

Robot hisses, but it quickly turns into a laugh. “That all you got, sweetheart?”

Another punch, somewhere on his cheek, only makes him laugh harder. Tyrell’s face gets even more contorted, and at some point Robot’s glasses are gone and he can barely see him, but he keeps laughing, because something about this whole thing—the absurdity of being on the floor of Tyrell fuckin’ Wellick’s kitchen—just keeps getting funnier by the minute.

And maybe that’s what slows Tyrell down. Or maybe he just runs out of steam.

Either way, the punches stop, and Robot’s laughter dies, and then it’s just the two of them, breathing harshly and staring at each other.

Robot grabs his glasses and shoves them on, and oh, Tyrell is right on top of him not moving an inch. His hair is completely disheveled—no sense of order to it, no gel left to hold it in place. Even the gloves on his hands look a little loose.

And suddenly Tyrell’s hand is on Robot’s face, almost absentmindedly touching Robot’s lip.

“There’s blood,” Tyrell says, simply.

“Oh,” Robot says, because he’s still looking at Tyrell.

And Tyrell might be leaning in a little closer, and Robot has known for a while that Tyrell felt something for him but he’s never really acted on it before, so why not just… let him?

So Robot props himself up on his elbows and grabs Tyrell’s collar, dragging him in, and Tyrell’s hand falls away from his face.

It’s surprisingly soft, at first—Tyrell’s lips against his, not really moving. It’s more about the pressure, the slight warmth, if anything, but Robot wants…

Robot nips at Tyrells bottom lip, just hard enough to sting.

And suddenly the heat in the room rises as Tyrell surges forward, pushing Mr. Robot back down to the ground. His hands find Robot’s wrists and pin them there against the floor, and oh, wow, Robot… likes this more than he thought he would.

He laughs, low, between kisses, and Tyrell suddenly pulls back, an undefinable look in his eyes—defiance, maybe.

Robot understands what it means a second later when Tyrell’s mouthing at his neck.

“Oh, shit,” Robot breathes, tilting his head back. Tyrell is _good_ at this, biting a little and then swiping his tongue across the marks he leaves. It sets Robot on fire in every possible way, the heat traveling through his limbs quicker than nicotine.

Tyrell noses his way further down Robot’s neck and Robot _wants_ —

The doorbell rings.

Tyrell pauses his work and Robot goes completely still. The doorbell rings again, and Tyrell finally pulls back, glancing at Robot before stumbling up to the door.

“What?” Tyrell says, sharp, and then a softer, “Oh. Hello sir.”

Robot picks himself up, wiping off his mouth as he does, and that’s when Philip Price walks in the room.

“Oh, shit,” Mr. Robot says, once more with feeling.

* * *

Price leaves a mess in his wake, in the form of a teary-eyed Wellick who managed to drink almost an entire bottle of vodka in one sitting. Damn impressive, but Mr. Robot would never tell him that.

“The FBI,” Tyrell says, breaking the momentary silence.

Robot looks up.

“The Dark Army has a man on the inside.”

Robot blows air out through his teeth. “Shit. Okay, well, we can use that.”

Tyrell nods, but he doesn’t seem fully there. His hair is still a mess from… earlier activities, and it seems like the vodka is finally settling in.

_Ah, fuck it._ Robot snatches the bottle up and takes a swig himself. He’s earned it, after dealing with all this.

But the second he does he’s reminded of his split lip, his bruised nose. He hisses, slightly, pressing a hand to his face.

Tyrell looks up at that. “Oh. Your…”

Robot waves a hand. “I’m fine. Don’t you worry your pretty head about me.”

But when he looks back, Tyrell is soaking a washcloth in the sink. He squeezes out the excess water and then slowly turns back, gesturing to the stool by the counter closest to him.

“Take a seat,” Tyrell says, and Robot complies, not really knowing why. Maybe to get Tyrell off his back and out of here in one piece.

Either way, Tyrell is suddenly back in his space again, but this time there’s no fury brimming under the surface. There’s just Tyrell’s hand on his face, feather-light, pressing the washcloth against the underside of his nose.

Robot can’t help but examine Tyrell from this close. It’s a more perfect opportunity than earlier, which was… messy, to say the least. This vantage point lets him watch Tyrell’s eyes—like the wind above the ocean—flicker, his eyelashes long and almost blond.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Robot feels like he’s been caught spying. It’s startling, how much Robot wants to lean in again, capture Tyrell’s lips in his. Maybe tease a different sort of sound from him, something not so harsh—something softer, something...

Robot looks away, his face flushing. He’s acting like a high schooler who just discovered how to hold hands, and it’s with _Tyrell_ , of all people. Dammit.

Tyrell doesn’t say anything, though—he just keeps cleaning the blood off Robot’s face, gentle as ever.

Robot finally works up the nerve to look back at Tyrell, who’s paused his work, glancing down to Robot’s neck. Mr. Robot’s collar is still undone, so no doubt—Tyrell left a mark earlier. Or two.

Robot smirks. “You gonna do anything about the ones on my neck, hotshot?”

“Well, I _could_ kiss them better,” Tyrell says, glaring without heat, “but I think maybe you’ve had enough of that, hm?”

Robot whistles. “Touché.”

Tyrell sighs before tossing the washcloth back in the sink.

“We done here?” Robot asks, moving to get off the stool.

Before he can, Tyrell ducks down, pressing his lips gently to Robot’s swollen eyelid. Robot can barely feel it—it’s like a brush of air more than skin.

But it sends shivers through him, down to his fingertips and back.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrell murmurs, still leaned in close.

Robot can’t look at him—it’s too much, all at once, the heat of Tyrell so near, the echo of a rare apology. “It… it’s nothing.”

Tyrell smiles a little at that, and for a moment it looks like he’ll lean back in again. Robot… Robot wants him to.

But Tyrell takes a step back instead, letting Robot walk to the front door.

Robot can’t help himself—he turns back for a moment. Looks at Tyrell leaned up against the counter, his damn pretty eyes in the low light.

“We’ll talk,” Mr. Robot says.

Tyrell smiles. “Bonsoir.”

Robot chuckles at that, and then he’s out the door, feeling a burn in his chest that wasn’t there before.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one-shot to explore some more potential canon-compliant Tyrobot! I've got a couple of ideas for more of these one-shots, so hopefully you'll all be seeing those soon.


End file.
